


All the Words in the World

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Get together fic, HP: EWE, M/M, eighth year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 20:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12992397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: “Sometimes not speaking says more than all the words in the world.”Malfoy has stopped talking; Harry resolves to find out what's going on.





	All the Words in the World

**Author's Note:**

> i was binging the films this weekend and had the thought of draco not talking after the war; this doesn't go into a lot of background or anything. similar to my other drarry fic, just assume the animosity isn't as strong as other fics show. this is just some self indulgent fluffy fun. 
> 
> thanks to hannah (cathect) for betaing! 
> 
> enjoy!

The most startling thing about returning to Hogwarts is not anything Harry ever anticipated. It’s not the remaining rubble and war-torn parts of the castle. It’s not the distinct dearth of students: how despite several students returning for an eighth year, the whole school feels absurdly empty. It’s not the lack of Snape at the table, or the addition of several new ghosts with familiar faces; it’s not the tender way McGonagall speaks during the start of the year speech. No, none of that.

The most startling thing about returning to Hogwarts—at least, to Harry—is that Draco hasn’t spoken a single word, and they’re fast coming up on winter break. Now, granted, Harry is not around Draco all the time, so he can’t say with absolutely certainty that Malfoy hasn’t an uttered a word. But given that they share an eighth year common room and a number of classes, Harry is reasonably confident that Malfoy’s mouth has been firmly sealed since the start of the year—if not before that.

“You’re staring again, mate.” Ron tells him around a mouthful of food. He points his fork accusingly at Harry, then down the table to where Malfoy sits. “Why not just talk to him already?”

Harry rounds on Ron with a slack-jawed stare. “Are you mental?” He hisses, smacking at Ron’s fork when it’s aimed at him again. “Why on Earth should I talk to him?”

“You’re always staring, Harry. And he hasn’t really been a prat this year anyway.” Ron shrugs and stabs at another sausage instead of directing it at Harry.

“He hasn’t spoken a single bloody word to us, Ron, how do you know he’s not still a prat?”

Ron looks up with a contemplative look on his face. He’s chewing noisily on the sausage, and looks down the table at Malfoy. He stares, chews, hums in consideration. “Nah.” He declares. He waves his fork around, sausage and all, as though dispelling the idea. “Think he might be alright now. He should apologize, y’know, for being a prat before. But I don’t think he’s got the same stick up his arse as he used to.”

Harry groans and shakes his head. “You’re mental,” he insists again.

Ron only shrugs once more.

 

Eventually the curiosity eats at him enough that he does takes Ron advice, however ill-founded he thinks it may be. He starts off by sitting beside Malfoy at their next Potions lesson. He gets an arched eyebrow and confused frown for his troubles, but nothing else. Even when he nudges Malfoy gently and asks for his help on the potion they’re meant to be brewing, Malfoy just silently shoves his parchment closer so Harry can read it. He even goes so far, toward the end of the lesson, to ask Malfoy his opinion on the recent Chudley Cannons match. At that, he at least gets an eyeroll, which is more expressive than anything he’s seen thus far.

All told, not very successful. And yet, Harry finds himself resolved to keep at it.

 

He decides to keep it limited to their Potions class, at least to start. It wouldn’t do any good to try it in every single class they share, or in the common room. He’s sure that would only scare Malfoy off, which Harry is trying _not_ to do. Their next Potions lesson, he takes the same seat as before. He gets another raised eyebrow, but no frown this time. When Harry asks for help, he gets an eyeroll and a gentle shove as Malfoy—wordlessly—shows him how to best add the ingredients or the right way to wave his wand over the cauldron. At the end of the lesson, when Harry tries again to talk about Quidditch, Malfoy simply gestures to the Stonewall Stormers patch mostly hidden on his school bag, before hurrying off.

Harry counts it as a success.

It carries on like that for several weeks, and though Harry never gets a word out of Malfoy he gets varying degrees of physical reactions. He greets Malfoy at the start of every lesson and without fail gets an eyeroll in response at least after the third time Harry tries it. Any time he asks for help he gets maybe a scoff and a wry turn of lips; more often than not, when they aren’t putting together Potions and Harry needs help, Malfoy will just angle his parchment so that Harry can copy off him. On one memorable occasion, as Harry idly chattered on about not quite understanding the instructions, he got thin fingers around his wrist, halting him from adding precisely the wrong ingredient to the cauldron. At the end of every lesson, he spouts off some fact or question about a recent game, and most of the time he gets a shrug or a derisive snort. The few times he brings up the Stormers, he at least gets an intrigued hum or an agreeable tilt of the head.

 

It’s after a few weeks of consistently positive contact that Harry decides he needs to up the ante. It isn’t as though he can ask Malfoy about the self-imposed silence during a lesson anyhow. So one overly chilled weekend in December, just a week and a half shy of winter break, Harry breaks off from Ron and Hermione to amble over to the fireplace. He falls into the plush, plum colored armchair nearest the roaring flames; the movement stirs Malfoy from his reading, where he sits in a similarly plush, but auburn colored armchair.

“What’re you reading?” Harry asks as he peers over. Malfoy angles his book so that Harry can see the spine, cracked and well-worn as it is. “Mm,” Harry hums, feigning interest. He clearly doesn’t feign it well enough, since Malfoy smirks at him and shakes his head. “Sorry, guess it’s just not my taste.”

Malfoy raises a single eyebrow, as if to say— _really, never would’ve guessed_.

Harry shrugs in response. “Any plans for break?” He asks, wondering if he perhaps should’ve brought a book of his own. His fingers twitch anxiously and he curls his grip into his robes, instead.

Malfoy shakes his head, but rather than returning to his book he stares at Harry expectantly.

“Me?” Harry confirms. After Draco nods, a bit long-suffering, Harry continues. “I’ll probably stay here this year. I’ve been invited to the Burrow but things are… Not bad, you know. Just not… not good.”

Malfoy makes a surprisingly sincere noise of sympathy, and dog-ears the page in his book. He shifts his body just enough to give Harry his full attention. So, Harry keeps talking.

“It’s just.” He drops to a more hushed tone, one mindful of the fact they aren’t alone in the commons. “After Ginny and I broke up, things haven’t quite been the same. Especially with Fred gone. It’s all rather tense. And being at the Burrow would mean rooming with Ron and Hermione, and—” He spares a glance to the corner where said friends sit, heads close together and murmuring. “Let’s just say I’d rather spend the hols here.”

When his gaze slides back to Malfoy, he finds the blond smiling. Not mockingly, though. Not snide or even remotely close to a sneer. There’s a twinge of sympathy still lingering in his expression, and while he’s clearly a bit amused he’s not taking the piss, for once.

“You play chess?” Harry asks abruptly.

Malfoy nods slowly.

“Want to play a game?” Harry doesn’t have his own board, but given it was Ron’s idea to start talking to Malfoy in the first place he figures his friend won’t mind.

Flashing an apologetic smile, Malfoy lifts his book. Harry’s not sure, but just from the twist of his lips and the gleam in his eyes, he feels like they’ve had an entire conversation in the span of seconds.

“Some other time, then.” Harry says, settling back into the armchair all the same. “Mind if I stay?”

Malfoy nods first—about the game—then shakes his head. He settles in as well and opens his book once more. Harry watches him read for a moment, admittedly taken aback by the speed that Malfoy flips through the pages, but eventually his attention wanders. He watches the endless flames of the fireplace for a bit, before shifting again and catching Ron’s eyes from across the room.

Ron grins and shoots him a thumbs up, one that Hermione mimics with a blinding smile of her own. Harry rolls his eyes and flips them two fingers as discreetly as he can.

Judging by the small uptick on Malfoy’s lips, he figures he wasn’t very discreet at all.

 

 

When Malfoy sits beside him at breakfast the next morning, Harry swallows his shock with a sip of pumpkin juice and barely keeps from choking. Malfoy’s got a different book in hand, already at least a chapter or two in, and he holds it elegantly in one hand after he piles up his plate with food. He eats one-handed, daintily; he never fails to spear a bite of food and never fails to get the food to his mouth—so unlike Ron, or even Harry.

A swift kick to his shins pulls his attention away in time to see Ron snickering into his goblet. Harry scowls and if he wandlessly, wordlessly spells Ron’s plate to dump all over his lap, that’s his business.

He tries not to think of it as retaliation, but that’s kind of what it is when he sits beside Malfoy in Transfiguration after lunch. Not that it shows, given the smooth and serene—and utterly _silent_ —way Malfoy adjusts to his presence. There’s no tentative lead up like there was with Potions. Harry doesn’t even have to make a remark about struggling before Malfoy is reaching over to correct his form. Again, thin fingers curl tight around his wrist and help him to wave his wand in the right way.

The skin on Harry’s neck burns, particularly as he feels their classmates’ eyes on them, but he does nothing to stop it. Besides, by the end of class, Harry’s actually gotten the spell down and McGonagall shoots him a pleased smirk.

“Thanks,” he murmurs to Malfoy as they pack up their things. “You’ve got Arithmancy next, right?”

Malfoy nods but pauses just outside the classroom when Harry makes no move to leave.

“I’ve got a free period,” Harry says, feeling silly. “You should probably get going, don’t want to be late.”

For a split second, Malfoy opens his mouth as though he might speak. But then he simply nods, a polite farewell. Harry watches him leave until a cough from behind startles him enough he drops his bag.

“Blimey, mate, you’re right fucked, aren’t you?” Ron says, leaning all too casually against the wall.

“What’re you on about?” Harry asks with a scowl as he gathers his things from the floor.

“Malfoy.” Ron elaborates. “You looked about ready to follow him to Arithmancy.” He nods in the direction Draco left, smirking all the while.

“No, I wasn’t.” Harry resolutely snaps. “C’mon, I need fresh air.”

“I’m sure you do.” Ron agrees. “Mate, whenever you’re ready, I’m all ears.” As they start off toward the grounds, Ron amends his statement. “Mostly all ears. If you’re off snogging I don’t need to hear about that. Or if you’re _wishing_ you were snogging, I don’t need to know about that either.”

When Ron gleefully steps over Harry’s tripping charm, Harry’s mood only sours further.

That evening when he falls into the same armchair as before, Malfoy looks up from his book—a different one from this morning, somehow—with a curious expression.

“Ron’s being a prat.” Harry explains with a hand over his face. “A right fucking twat, he is.”

Malfoy laughs. It’s a breathy, toneless sound, but it’s definitely a laugh and Harry peeks through his fingers to stare. Malfoy’s face pinks a little when he laughs, and his lips fall open even though no sound escapes. He shakes his head after, as though he could shake off the remnants of his mirth.

“He is,” Harry insists, delighted when Malfoy’s lips turn in more amusement. “Doesn’t know a thing, but likes to think he does.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, and shakes his head.

“I’m not being over dramatic.” Harry retorts. “He’s being a prick. Are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”

Malfoy shakes his head and lets his book drop enough to raise his hand in surrender.

Harry groans and drops his head back. “I need better friends.”

Malfoy scoffs.

“You’re not so bad,” Harry relents, trying not to grin when Malfoy mockingly preens under the half-arsed compliment. “Hey, Malfoy?”

Malfoy tilts his head obligingly, though his eyes are studiously focused and flickering over the words of his book.

“Why don’t you, er. Why don’t you talk, anymore?” Harry says it quietly. He even goes so far as to lean closer so that he can be sure no one hears him. The common room isn’t overly crowded, and no one is close enough to hear them anyway, but after Harry speaks the world seems to still.

Malfoy stares at him, mouth slightly ajar. His book starts to slip from his grip and without thinking Harry reaches over to grab it and slip his fingers between the pages, saving Malfoy’s spot. The action draws Malfoy’s attention for a moment, long enough that he at least dog ears the page again and sets the book down in his lap after Harry lets go. He opens his mouth again, same as he had after Transfiguration, but snaps his mouth shut again with a harsh click.

When Malfoy starts to stand, Harry shoots out a hand again and grips his elbow gently.

“No, no, don’t go.” Harry finds himself thinking, not entirely aware of the words spilling from his mouth. “Forget it, okay?” Harry says honestly. “Just. Stay?”

Malfoy slowly falls back into his seat, cradling his book to his chest. Harry retracts his hand sinks back into his own chair. The silence between them is delicate, fragile, like it might shatter any second and with it break up this burgeoning truce. Friendship, even, Harry would go so far as to call it a friendship. If pressed, at least.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs.

Malfoy watches him for a moment longer. Then, he cracks his book open again and buries his nose in it. They sit there in tense but mostly companionable silence for a while, until the fireplace turns mostly to embers and the others have mostly gone to their rooms. Malfoy is the first to stand. He arches his back and groans breathless as his spine pops. The motion rouses Harry from his almost-doze, and he looks up right as Malfoy faces him.

Malfoy holds out a hand and Harry lets the blond pull him up.

“G’night.” Harry says.

Malfoy nods. He stares, practically scrutinizing Harry, before suddenly turning on his heel and stalking toward the staircase that leads to his dorm. Harry watches him go, even though Malfoy never once turns and looks back.

Malfoy sits beside him at breakfast again the next morning, and despite the spat the night before, they fall into their usual habits without fanfare. Harry sits beside Malfoy in Potions; Malfoy sits beside him in Transfiguration. They sit beside one another in the common room that night. Harry doesn’t ask again, even though he truly does want to know. He supposes it doesn’t matter much in the long run, given that he and Malfoy manage to communicate just fine without the blond uttering a single word.

They sit where they sit, comfortably, and they chat—as much as it can be called that—and Harry enjoys it. It’s nice to have a routine. Sometimes Ron and Hermione join them, particularly in the commons, but not always. Things are easy and peaceful and for the first time in quite possibly ever, Harry feels alright.

Every day is like that, without fail, all the way until the day before winter break.

 

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Ron asks. “Mum would love to have you, y’know.”

Harry shakes his head, hands curled around a mug of hot cocoa. “I’ll pass, Ron. I think it’s just better if I hang back this year.”

Ron frowns. “You sure you don’t want me n’Hermione to stick around?”

Again, Harry shakes his head. “Honestly, Ron, I’ll be fine. It’ll be nice to have some peace and quiet.” Without thinking, he looks over at Malfoy beside him. Diligently reading, as always, but beside him his own mug of cocoa hangs in the air, waiting for him to reach for it. When Harry looks back at Ron, it’s to find his friend smirking at him. Harry glares back, though it does nothing to deter him.

“Alright, alright,” Ron concedes. He’s still smirking, though. “Want me to have mum send your gift here?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, of course.” He can’t imagine waking up to a Christmas at Hogwarts and not having at least one thing open. “I’ll send yours in the post tomorrow,” he adds. “That way you can open it there.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Course you are. Can’t just send it along with us, can you?”

“You’ll open it,” Harry points out.

Ron shrugs. “Gonna open it either way, what’s a few days?” He dodges the tiny stinging hex Harry aims his way with a laugh. “What about you, Malfoy? Any plans?”

Malfoy shakes his head, and looks to Harry.

“He’s staying here, as well.”

Ron raises a none-too-subtle eyebrow, and Harry tries to shake his head, and only exceeds in Malfoy looking at him oddly.

“That’s good,” Ron eventually says. “You can keep Harry outta trouble while we’re gone.”

Harry makes an indignant noise. “When have I _ever_ deliberately gotten myself into trouble?” Harry looks to Hermione for confirmation as she sits beside Ron, and gets only an exasperated shrug. For lack of a better option he rounds on Malfoy, who just smirks in return. “All of you, absolutely mental.”

Malfoy laughs again, the same wheezy sound as before, and returns to his book with shoulders shaking.

 

 

Harry looks up from the smattering of gifts in his lap when another one is thrust into his line of sight. He follows the elegantly wrapped present up to Malfoy’s face.

“Oh.” Harry says quietly and takes the gift from Malfoy. “Er, I didn’t get you anything.” Harry admits, feeling embarrassed. Malfoy only shrugs and sits in his usual spot in the auburn armchair. It feels odd, Harry thinks, to sit across from him rather than beside him. But he doesn’t move, because it’s also easier to stare at Malfoy this way.

After a pointed glance at the present, Harry hurries about unwrapping it. He draws his finger carefully under the edge of the wrapping and does his best to avoid tearing it. Malfoy’s eyeroll partway through tells him he needn’t have bothered, but that only makes Harry work harder not to rip it. He sets the paper aside once he’s peeled it off, and opens the box with the same careful hand.

“Oh,” he breathes again. He reaches into the box and pulls out a glimmering chess piece—the king, shiny and new without a single crack in the veneer. “Malfoy, this is…” Harry looks closer and inspects every piece and the chessboard underneath. “This is brilliant.”

When Harry finally looks up again, Malfoy is grinning with a tinge of pink to his cheeks.

“Now we won’t have to borrow Ron’s set,” Harry admits idly. Not that Ron’s set is bad, but it is old and the pieces had a tendency not to listen to Harry just right. “How much did this cost?” He asks, suddenly stricken. “I can’t—?”

Malfoy is shaking his head, lips pursed.

“I… I feel like a right tit for not getting you something.”

Malfoy just shrugs again. He points at the game with a small grin, and Harry nods.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s play.”

They’re into their third round when a chittering at the window catches their attention. Harry stands up, since it’s Malfoy’s move, and lets the owl in after he recognizes it as Molly’s. Hestia flutters past Harry and settles on the arm of Malfoy’s chair, then nips at his ear when he doesn’t look up right away. Still by the window, Harry watches as Malfoy carefully, warily retrieves the package from Hestia’s clawed grasp, and opens it under her watchful eye.

Malfoy has none of the finesse Harry used that morning, and tears into the wrapping paper with gusto. Harry finally shuts the window against the softly billowing snow and approaches the scene cautiously. He peers over the back of the armchair and gasps at the same moment as Malfoy.

With shaking hands, the blond holds up the sweater. He looks first to Hestia, who hoots cheerily; then he looks over his shoulder at Harry with a gaping expression.

“Er.” Harry grins. “Molly says hello, I suppose. And Happy Christmas.” He nods to the small card that’s fallen into Malfoy’s lap, where indeed Molly’ scrawl reads _Happy Christmas, dear. Stay warm._ Polite and short, but the sweater is crafted just as lovingly as the ones Harry has—as the one Harry is wearing now. “Put it on?” He asks softly.

Another breathless surprised noise escapes Malfoy but he stands. He scrambles to put it on, getting tangled at one point in the sleeves before righting himself and popping his head through the hole. He grins sheepishly at Harry and looks down at the sweater. Rather than a predictable emerald green, it’s a luscious deep blue. The coloring looks stark against Malfoy’s pale skin and hair, and brings out his eyes in a way that makes Harry’s breathing catch. There’s no large, garish _‘D’_ emblazoned on it, either, not like the golden _‘H’_ on Harry’s own. Instead, the sweater is threaded with strands of silver. Simple and elegant, rather like Malfoy himself.

If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say that Malfoy was a Ravenclaw. He grins back at Malfoy.

“Fits alright then? Dunno how Molly does it. It’s got to be a charm.”

Malfoy shrugs as he sits again. He flips the small card of parchment over and sneaks a quill from the table. Harry watches him scribble frantically, presumably a thank you note. Malfoy ties it to Hestia’s leg once he’s finished, and strokes her feathers before she flutters off.

Harry opens the window again to let her out, and takes his seat after shutting the window behind the owl.

“You like it?” Harry asks as he settles back onto the couch across from Malfoy.

He nods. His hands are curled at the hem and he keeps looking down as though he can’t quite believe it.

“You’ll want to thank Ron,” Harry adds. “It was his idea I talk to you, y’know.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow.

Harry sighs. “I told him it was odd that you—just. I mentioned to him how you seemed different, and he suggested I try talking to you, see how that goes.”

Malfoy tilts his head.

“It’s gone alright so far, I think.”

He gets a nod, and a small smile in response.

“Glad you think so.” Harry sinks into the couch. “Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade?” He asks suddenly. “My treat. As a, er, Christmas gift of sorts?”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow again, the left side this time.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.” Harry says triumphantly. Malfoy doesn’t argue, which only furthers Harry’s pleased grin. “Tomorrow? Half ten?”

Malfoy nods. Briefly they both look to their mostly abandoned chess game and together they shrug. Harry relaxes into the couch, and Malfoy picks up his book from the table and curls up in the armchair. He opens it, and Harry notices it’s yet another different book.

“Er, want me to go?” Harry feels a bit ridiculous asking, but the insecurity that tugs at him spurs the words from his mouth.

Malfoy shakes his head.

“Okay.” Harry relaxes again. He moves his modest pile of gifts from his lap and charms them up the stairs to his dorm. Once they’re tucked away, he settles on the couch and loses himself in watching Malfoy. He watches him long enough to catch a shiver run its course, and after Harry lights the fireplace with a wordless, wandless spell. Malfoy looks up and shoots him a grateful smirk before turning back to his book.

Neither of them speak, and that’s just fine by Harry.

 

 

“Ready?” Harry asks, though it’s not needed. Malfoy stands beside him in the blue sweater with a winter jacket thrown over the thick knitted material. A black hat is stuffed down over his ears and a silver scarf is wound around his neck. Malfoy gestures to the portrait as if to say, _“after you.”_ Harry leads the way out and together they fall in step heading toward the entrance to the grounds. “Was there anything in particular you wanted?”

Malfoy tilts his head from side to side, considering. He shrugs, eventually, and looks over at Harry. It’s a sideways stare, one accompanied by a teasing turn of lips.

“Lunch and a few drinks alright then?”

Malfoy just shrugs again.

“You can decide when we get there,” Harry agrees. “Just, let me know.”

They stop off at Honeydukes first, and in no time Malfoy has gathered a fair amount of candy into a basket. After several minutes of shopping, during which Harry has picked up a few handfuls of things himself, Malfoy presents the basket to Harry without fanfare. Harry’s barely got his fingers curled around the handle before Malfoy is off, pink in the cheeks, hurrying outside.

He’s still outside, waiting against the wall, after Harry comes out. The treats fit into a modest paper bag and Harry tucks it into a pocket of his robe charmed to hold more than it ought. Malfoy smiles and Harry chooses to interpret the expression as a thank you. “Three Broomsticks?” Harry asks.

Malfoy nods and starts off in the direction of the pub, hesitating only long enough for Harry’s strides to match his. Their footsteps crunch across the fresh fallen snow until they hit the door to The Three Broomsticks; they seem to steam as they walk inside the deliciously warm tavern, and Malfoy busies himself with snagging them a table while Harry bustles up to the bar.

He grins at Madam Rosmerta and she promptly places two goblets in front of them. With a twirling of her wand they fill to the brim with frothy butterbeer, the foam speared with a stick of cinnamon in each.

He nods in thanks and leaves an extra few sickles on the counter as he takes the goblets into his hands. He scans the relatively empty pub and spots Malfoy at a table in the back. He doesn’t quite wave Harry over, but he tilts his head up and arches a brow, and Harry that’s as much of an invite as he’ll get.

He carefully makes his way through the crowd and sets Malfoy’s butterbeer across from him before taking a seat. “This is nice,” he says, still biting back a shiver from the outside chill. “Mind if we stop by the bookstore?”

Malfoy nods and sips at his goblet; he licks the foam from his upper lip as he stares at the other people in the bar. He seemingly gets bored of people watching and shifts his focus back to Harry. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly and he bites at his lower lip for a split second. There’s a spark in his eyes that seems at odds with the expression on his face, and it prompts Harry into speaking.

“You want to stop by the apothecary?” Harry asks, not entirely sure how he gleaned it from the slight gleam in Malfoy’s eyes. But he gets a nod and small smile in response, so he chalks it up to his increasingly impeccable observational skills. Malfoy laughs at him then, and the wry twist of his grin tells Harry he’s got absolutely no poker face.

“See if I buy you anything nice for Christmas, prat.” Harry tells him without heat.

 

 

Harry does buy Malfoy something nice, beside the sweets burning a hole in his pocket. Nothing extravagant or fancy—and Harry doesn’t especially want to know how much the new chess set cost Malfoy—but something that makes Harry feel like less of a twat. A set of new vials for potions had caught Harry’s eye, and the look of restrained delight on Malfoy’s face had been enough tos cinch the decision.

They rest heavily in Harry’s other robe pocket, along with a few books and more candy from Honeydukes. Despite the added weight, he never falters in his pace with Malfoy, even as the snow leading up to the castle gets heavier and a little more difficult to walk across.

Harry wants to say something as they get closer to the eighth year dorms, but can’t think of a single thing to say. The Stormers haven’t played in a while, there are no notes for Harry to copy. He has half a mind to ask again about the whole no talking thing, but can’t bring himself to do it.

He’s so lost in his thoughts he doesn’t realize they’re at the portrait until Malfoy makes a slight cough. Why he does it, Harry isn’t sure. He knows for a fact the portrait will let Malfoy in without him needing to speak, otherwise he’d never be able to get in without help. Despite this, and spurred on by the amused smirk Malfoy flashes his way, Harry sighs and faces the portrait.

Just as Harry opens his mouth to speak the password, a hand at his elbow stops him. “Hm?” He turns and looks at Malfoy, who’s still pink in the cheeks and whose nose is still bright red, but who’s no longer smirking. His scarf is unwound and exposing the hollow of his neck. Even with his hat still on his head, his hair is still windswept. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy stares at him, that same piercing and scrutinizing stares as always. Then, he opens his mouth. “I think you should call me Draco.” He says softly. He leans up and brushes his lips over Harry’s cheek, before nodding politely to the portrait. It swings open for him and he clambers through with far more grace than Harry could ever hope for.

Harry brings his hand to his cheek; he’s still for so long the portrait swings shut again while smirking at him. He mutters the password and climbs though, slipping on shaking legs. By the time he makes it into the heart of the common room, Malfoy—Draco is nowhere to be found. Despite that, and despite the blush burning Draco’s lips touched his cheek, Harry feels strangely calm. And delighted. His heart is hammering but he staggers up to his room with a grin he can’t seem to get rid of.

 

 

The rest of break passes in a blur as more students come back from break early. Before long the common room is bustling again, as are the rest of the castle halls. The increase in people makes it hard for Harry to find Draco, let alone catch him away from prying eyes. Not that it particularly matters, since Harry doesn’t much care who sees him and Draco about. But something tells him Draco would appreciate the seclusion.

Ron and Hermione show up the morning of the last day of break, both bundled up and flushed in the face. They spot Harry by the fireplace immediately, but their expressions shift as they get closer and seem to realize—first Ron, then Hermione—that Draco is not around. Harry gestures them closer conspiratorially, grateful for the uncharacteristic lack of students in the common room so early in the morning.

“Blimey, mate, he kissed you?” Ron very nearly exclaims, barely reigning his voice into a hush at the last moment. “That’s brilliant!”

Harry fixes him with an odd look, one that’s curbed by the grin he still can’t seem to get rid of.

“And he spoke,” Hermione points out. “That’s very important, Harry. It probably means a lot, coming from him.” She’s slowly but surely stripped out of her heavy winter clothes, leaving them in a slightly damp pile beside the fire. “I take it you haven’t spoken with him since?” She asks with a grin.

Harry shakes his head. “Haven’t been able to catch him alone. He’s avoiding me.”

“S’probably embarrassed.” Ron points out as he pulls a wrapped pasty from his pocket and starts to eat it. He breaks off a piece for Hermione, who declines; when he offers the piece to Harry, he eats it in one bite. “I was, after I kissed Hermione, y’know. Give him time.”

Harry looks at his best friend in surprise. “Thanks, Ron.” He swallows the somewhat stale bite of pasty with a little difficulty. “That’s… that’s actually really helpful.”

Ron beams and shoves the rest of the pasty into his mouth. Around the dough and with crumbs flying off his lips, Ron replies. “Any time, mate.”

 

 

The following day, Draco sits beside Harry as always and flashes him a small grin.

“I’d like to talk to you. Feel like skipping Ancient Runes?” Harry asks under his breath. Draco’s lips curl in a grin, and he nods ever so slightly. “Good. Great. Brilliant.” He nudges Draco companionably, and gets a light-hearted scowl for his troubles.

Class after that seems to drag by impossibly slow, and Harry tunes out not long after extending the proverbial olive branch to Draco. He’s gratefully secure in the knowledge that Draco will shares his notes if Harry asks and maybe bribes him with sweets from the kitchen. He doesn’t feel too terribly about losing himself to the tune of Slughorn’s droning, though he feels a little bad when he only comes to because of Draco’s bony elbow in his side.

They file out of the classroom with the rest of the students, but instead of turning toward the staircases to head up to Ancient Runes and Defence, respectively, Draco and Harry start toward the grounds instead. Harry doesn’t remark about how it’s probably overly cold outside, even as they get closer to the exit and the chill starts to nip at them even from a distance.

Draco stops him before they actually step outside and conjures a scarf that falls in thick, plush loops around Harry’s neck. Then, a lumpy hat falls over his head, large enough to cover his ears and nearly his eyes. Draco pulls a scarf and hat from his own bag, rather than conjuring them, and puts them on with precision before nodding toward the doors.

Harry makes an _after you_ gesture, and follows close at Draco’s heels. Draco leads them to the forest’s edge where a mangled tree stump has been turned into a bench at some point over the prior summer. Draco casts a quick warming charm first, then sits down and pats the space beside him.

Harry sits obediently, and drops his bag at his feet. “You kissed me the other day.”

Draco nods. “I did.” He says softly. Harry wonders if his voice is deliberately quiet, or if it’s rusty with disuse.

“I, er.” Harry scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It was nice.”

Draco smiles and ducks his head.

“I’d like to do it again.” Harry admits with a brave shift closer. It causes his knee to bump against Draco’s, their shoulders together in a tight press. “If you would, I mean.”

Draco looks at him again and nods. “I would.” He agrees.

“Brilliant.” Harry says hoarsely. He leans in and kisses Draco just as chastely as the last kiss was. Barely a brush of mouths together, but Harry’s heart leaps in his chest all the same. Nothing more than a peck on the lips, really, but they’re both red in the face after. “Brilliant,” Harry says again.

Draco hums in what sounds like agreement. “You want to know why I don’t speak much, anymore?” He asks while pushing a particularly unruly lock of Harry’s hair back.

“If you want to tell me.” Harry murmurs back.

“No one cares much what I have to say. _I_ don’t care much.” Draco says. He finally tears his gaze away from Harry to look across the grounds. He sighs softly. “It seemed like the best way to keep my head down, this year.” Draco chews briefly on his lower lip before letting it go. “I hadn’t meant to stop entirely. I’d intended to… Talk. On occasion. When it was called for. But then…” Draco shrugs and his next almost dreamy exhale is foggy warm in the cold winter air. “It was easier not to.”

He aims a grin at Harry suddenly. “You seem to understand me just fine, as it is.”

Harry feels his cheeks heat and he’s helpless to do anything but beam back. “I suppose that’s true.”

Draco kisses him again, still sweet and soft and tender. Then again, yet another kiss that’s finally more solid and firm than the rest. Still tight-lipped but warmer and more intoxicating than the others. Harry presses closer, even brings up a hand to tangle in the locks sticking out from under Draco’s hat.

They each pull back with a small gasp. Draco tilts his head just slightly and a few stray strands of hair hang over his blue-gray eyes. Slowly, he reaches between them and links his fingers with Harry’s free hand. He squeezes once, twice, then lets their hands settle on the bench.

 

After a while, Draco hums and his gaze once more fans out across the snowy grounds.

“Want to head back inside? We’ll be back in time for Charms.”

Draco nods and stands, pulling Harry up along with him. They each sling their bags over their shoulders and, hands still linked, they set off toward the castle. Even as they hit the steps and cross the threshold into the halls, their hands don’t come apart. Draco’s quick steps match up evenly with Harry’s longer strides and in no time at all, they’re at the slightly ajar door to their charms class.

Harry looks at Draco briefly, and finds him staring back. They share a grin, and Draco pushes the door open with his available hand.

Together, they sit at the last available pair of sits, beside Ron and Hermione no less. Eyes are on them the entire time, as they had been the entire way to the classroom. Harry snickers when Flitwick clears his throat to capture the attention of the class again. It isn’t until he’s deep into a lecture that Ron leans over and whispers—

“You two owe me, y’know.”

Draco smirks and Harry swallows a laugh. “We do,” he agrees.  “We definitely do.”


End file.
